


Funny Man

by spacecapes



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Batman: The Telltale Series (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Batjokes, Bruce Is A Big Softie, But mostly fluff, Canon-Typical Ableism, Crossdressing, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Implied/Referenced Non-con, John Is A Gem, Juce, M/M, Mutual Pining, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Selina Kyle/Bruce Wayne, Pretty Woman AU, Prostitution, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-12 04:35:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28629654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacecapes/pseuds/spacecapes
Summary: Hanging up his cape left Bruce in a constant state of vertigo, and Christmas time didn’t exactly make it any easier. Not only did he have to attend all those Christmas shindigs and pretend to be something he was not, but it was also the time of year that reminded him the most of what he’d lost. Alfred did his best, but he couldn’t be everything to Bruce and the big, gaping hole that giving up Batman had left in his life was threatening to eat him up inside. This is how, one night, he ends up looking for company in the East End – no strings attached, except that’s impossible when you’re two stitches in the same thread…A Telltale meets Pretty Woman AU, in which John never joins The Pact, and he and Bruce meet under very different circumstances. Needless to say, mutual pining and about every other romantic cliché under the sun ensues.
Relationships: John Doe/Bruce Wayne, Joker (DCU)/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 60
Kudos: 85





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo… I started writing a Batjokes/Juce Pretty Woman AU. Why? Because I wanted to. 
> 
> I know I’m a little late to the party, but I fell head over heels in love with Bruce and John in the Telltale universe and I needed an outlet for all of the feelings I was feeling, so this happened. Sorry?
> 
> The story is set after the Batman: The Telltale Series and before Batman: The Enemy Within, except that in this version, Alfred gave Bruce his ultimatum after the whole Lady Arkham debacle and Bruce chose to hang up his cape because he couldn’t bear to see Alfred go. Personally, I don’t think Bruce would ever give up Batman, not permanently anyway, but for the purpose of this story, he’s at the very least taking a break, so do with that what you will.
> 
> I should also mention that I’ve inhaled all the Batjokes content I could get my hands on over the past two months (including the Arkham games, The Killing Joke, and all the wonderful stories on here that I will have to go back to and comment on at some point because seriously all of you are bloody amazing), so apologies if there are some small traces of other incarnations of the Joker in my characterisation of John – I blame it on the fact that Gotham hasn’t been kind to him after he got out of Arkham, and the experience has made him a bit rougher around the edges ;) 
> 
> Like I said above, this is a Pretty Woman AU (but you don’t need to have watched the movie or anything, I used it as an inspiration and there will be the odd reference to it, but that’s about it) and it’s also vaguely Christmas-themed, which hopefully doesn’t feel too out of place in January. This will be mostly fluff with a healthy dose of angst, but heed the warnings, folks – there’s a small reference to off-screen dub-con/non-con in this chapter and I’ll probably delve into some darker themes later on. Also, the rating will go up eventually.
> 
> Enjoy!

_No new messages._

Bruce stared at his phone screen with an intensity that he had usually reserved for particularly nefarious members of the Rogues Gallery, as if to make a message appear through sheer force of will. For a split second, he found himself wishing for a mass breakout in Arkham, a bomb threat, an alien invasion – anything to distract him from his current predicament, anything to convince Alfred that he had to put on his suit one last time, that Gotham simply couldn’t function without the Batman.

Except, as the more rational part of his brain unhelpfully supplied, that wasn’t quite true, was it? It had been almost seven months since Bruce hung up the cape, literally and figuratively, and Gotham was still standing, in all its questionable glory. Contrary to his worst fears, the world hadn’t ended just because Batman was no longer roaming the streets at night – in fact, to the outside observer, the world probably didn’t even appear to have changed all that much.

Soon after his disappearance, the tabloids had inevitably launched into a frantic competition over who could come up with the most ludicrous explanation for why the city’s best-known vigilante had suddenly vanished into thin air; one particularly hilarious reporter had even gone as far as to suggest that Batman must have miscalculated the precise timing of the sunrise, and had thus burnt to ashes. 

Of course there was still the occasional explosion, a few bank robberies here and there, and just last month there had been an elaborate heist at the Gotham Museum of Antiquities that Bruce just _knew_ Selina had to have orchestrated, but the catastrophic spike in crime he would have once bet his entire fortune on had simply never happened. 

At first, Bruce had tried to tell himself that everyone was biding their time, that criminals and civilians alike believed that Batman would eventually return, that his disappearance was only temporary, or that he was playing the long game to uproot the criminality and corruption that ran in Gotham’s very veins. But as months had gone by and the conspiracy theories had eventually subsided, and nothing had happened that couldn’t be classed as perfectly ordinary by Gotham standards, Bruce had had to face the harsh reality that his city had existed long before Batman, and it would continue to do so long after. 

In the aftermath of the Lady Arkham debacle, complete with an involuntary stay at a mental asylum and a catacomb collapse that had almost killed Bruce as well as his butler-cum-surrogate father, Alfred had put his foot down and demanded that he once and for all give up his night-time activities in exchange for a normal life, which, in Alfred’s humble definition, merely required the absence of consistent threats to both of their lives.

“It’s me or the suit, Master Bruce,” he had said, sad eyes betraying his fear that even after all these years, after everything they had been through together, Bruce would end up choosing Batman over him. And Bruce almost had. He had almost given up the only family he had left for an obsession to rid Gotham of crime that would no doubt leave him bleeding to death in one of its dark alleys, like his parents before him. 

In the end, it hadn’t been fear of dying – Bruce had long since made peace with the fact that he wouldn’t get to live to a ripe, old age, not with the life he’d chosen for himself – but the realisation that he was willing to turn his back on what he thought he’d been fighting for in the first place, his family, that had made him change his mind at the last second. And so, despite the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, he had hugged Alfred, mechanically nodding along to the older man’s relieved assurances that he didn’t need a cape to incite change in Gotham, that he could still do plenty of good as Bruce Wayne. 

Bruce didn’t regret his decision, he hadn’t then and he didn’t now, but his conviction of having done the right thing did nothing to assuage the unrelenting sensation of freefall he’d been experiencing ever since he bade his vigilante career goodbye.

Alfred could of course tell that something was wrong – he’d been able to read Bruce like a book ever since he was a little boy – but save for the worried glances he shot him whenever he thought Bruce wasn’t looking, he never pushed. He dutifully drove Bruce to press conference after press conference and had on more than one occasion sat with him until dawn to work out a plan to help the GCPD help themselves.

Given his involvement in covering up Thomas Wayne’s horrendous crimes, Alfred had also taken it upon himself to set up a charitable foundation to provide Arkham Asylum with the necessary funds to transform it into a safer place for inmates and staff alike. A feeble, but well-intended attempt to make amends. 

It kept them busy, but Bruce couldn’t shake the feeling that Alfred’s wary eyes reflected suspicion back at him, that the older man could sense Bruce’s not-so-secret yearning for a reason to bring Batman back into their lives. This, right now, was by far not the first time he had considered going back on his word to stop feeling like only half a person, just for a while. Still, wishing for a catastrophe to befall the city he called home had to be a new low, even for Bruce. Then again, given where he was and why, he had severe doubts as to whether his mental capacities could be trusted of late anyway.

It was a cold night at the beginning of December, but the Christmas spirit that had enveloped most of Gotham by now hadn’t quite reached as far as the East End, and Bruce knew from experience that it never would. Looking at the decrepit buildings that towered over him, he could make out the odd candle and a couple of forlorn fairy lights lighting up the otherwise pitch-black windows, but the dim glow they emitted would never be enough to offset the lingering traces of broken dreams and ruined futures that clung to every brick in the East End. 

Or perhaps it was just Bruce’s particular history with this part of Gotham that painted it in such a gloomy light – either way, Bruce was certain that all the Christmas decorations in the world wouldn’t give this place the warm, fuzzy feeling most people associated with this time of year. 

Not that Bruce himself had felt anything remotely close to warm and fuzzy about Christmas in years – if anything, it reminded him of what he’d lost and would never regain, melodramatic as it sounded. Since his return to Gotham almost a decade ago, Christmas at Wayne Manor had come and gone without fanfare. Alfred’s attempts to put him in a festive mood had always been politely but firmly refused, and Bruce had never allowed himself to ponder the disapproving expression on the older man’s face when Bruce forwent the no doubt delicious Christmas dinner Alfred unwaveringly prepared every single year, to brace the icy winds on Gotham’s rooftops instead. 

If he had suspected, even for a moment, that Alfred’s dismay reflected his own desire to celebrate Christmas, Bruce might have forced himself to make an effort, but he was certain that it was merely the older man’s way of mourning the normal life they both knew Bruce would never have, and that stirred a complex cocktail of emotions in him that he wasn’t willing to deal with at the best of times. 

This year, while Alfred had so far thankfully resisted the urge to mention Christmas other than in passing, Bruce was in the unfortunate position of having way too much time on his hands and none of the usual distractions that had so far kept him from acknowledging the dismal state of his personal life once Batman was taken out of the equation.

Bar Alfred and Lucius, his two partners in crime-fighting, he had no real friends. The ones he’d had, once upon a time, had either turned out to be criminals like Harvey and Oswald, or they had inexplicably liked Bruce for the billionaire playboy persona he’d used to wear like an ill-fitting suit to hide his secret identity. The latter kind had, predictably, lost interest fairly quickly after Bruce had stopped behaving like a spoiled child in a city-sized candy store and had started directing his time and money towards making a real difference in Gotham. 

Sometimes he wondered whether giving up Batman was really what had left this gaping hole inside of him, or whether perhaps the hole had always been there, but he had simply been too preoccupied to notice it before. 

Resting his head on the steering wheel of his car, Bruce sighed and, for what felt like the millionth time that night, listed all the reasons he should be at home rather than right around the corner from one of Gotham’s infamous red-light districts. 

In what he now recognised to be an exceptionally asinine moment, even by recent standards, Bruce had decided that, for once, he didn’t feel like being alone with his dreary thoughts. Not tonight. Tonight, he wanted something – _someone_ – to tether him to this new reality, a reality in which Batman no longer existed and he had to relearn how to be Bruce Wayne without losing his mind in the process. No strings attached, that was his specialty after all, wasn’t it?

Grabbing the keys to his least flashy car and mumbling an unconvincing excuse to Alfred, Bruce had already been halfway to the East End before he realised what he was doing. He was going to hire… a hooker – a prostitute? Sex worker? He wasn’t even sure which of these terms, if any, were considered politically correct, which in itself should be a fairly straightforward sign that he had no business paying for sex. That, and the fact that the thought alone made his guts churn. Not because Bruce had any qualms about sex work per se – he found that those who did were usually the ones most likely to exploit it for their own, far from noble purposes – but there was something so… inherently clinical about it that discomfited him.

Loathe as he was to admit it, somewhere deep _deep_ down, beneath several layers of cynicism and bitterness, Bruce had always considered sleeping with someone, even casually, the pinnacle of physical, albeit not necessarily emotional, intimacy. Certainly not something you should be able to buy at a corner store – or on a corner, as he supposed was the more apt descriptor in this case. 

In fact, the last person he’d been with was Selina, and shouldn’t that have taught him a lesson about going to bed with near strangers? Sleeping with her had in no way been a decision Bruce had made lightly, for more reasons than just her involvement with Harvey at the time, and her brushing him off afterwards had hurt a lot more than he cared to admit – but that particular rabbit hole wasn’t one he was willing to go down right now, or maybe ever.

Groaning loudly, Bruce hit his head against the steering wheel. He supposed most people would think it funny that Bruce Wayne, Gotham’s golden son, billionaire playboy extraordinaire, not only had hang-ups about paying for sex but would choose to resort to such ostensibly desperate measures in the first place. After all, why would he? It wasn’t arrogance so much as simple fact that women were lining up to spend the night in his bed – if not his bank account, then his dubious reputation as the city’s most eligible bachelor seemed to be a good enough reason for most of them.

Except… except that was precisely the problem. Twisted as it might seem, Bruce figured that if he paid for sex, fair and square, at least there wouldn’t be any room for speculation as to what either party was getting out of the exchange. This way, at least he would know for certain that his partner was pretending to want to be with him for all the wrong reasons.

Unfortunately, the same couldn’t be said for the slew of sycophantic socialites he was forced to rub shoulders with every now and then – some of them had more than enough money of their own but, as it turned out, still preferred the idea of him to the real deal. A night with Bruce Wayne was, more often than not, just another item to cross off their bucket lists.

The memory of all those awkward morning afters, which he had no intention of ever reliving, hardened his resolve; he hadn’t come all this way for nothing. Starting up his car again, Bruce slowly approached Alleytown, where he knew from his many nights spent patrolling over the years that he was bound to find what he was looking for. 

–

As his car rolled into view below the orange glow of the streetlights, several heads turned towards him, all trying to get a glimpse at who was sitting behind its tinted windows – he really should have known that even his least ostentatious car would stick out like a sore thumb in this neighbourhood. 

Bruce’s eyes listlessly wandered over the men and women who were surreptitiously angling their bodies towards him in what he assumed were supposed to be flattering poses but ultimately only added to his growing sense of unease – something about the whole process reminded him too much of choosing a product at a supermarket. 

Soon, the faces and figures all blurred into one and Bruce had half a mind to turn around and forget he ever came here, when a waifishly thin figure crouched a few feet behind the others caught his attention. His state of dress – or rather _un_ dress – left no doubt as to why he was hanging around these parts at this time of night: his skin-tight black leather skirt left very little to the imagination, and the garishly purple mesh top that hung loosely off his bony shoulders wasn’t much different.

Neither the obvious signs of malnourishment nor his inappropriate clothing given the cold December weather should have come as a surprise in this environment, and yet Bruce was overcome with the strange urge to wrap the man up in a blanket to keep him warm. He could just about make out unnaturally blonde hair and a pair of dark sunglasses, though his face was mostly obscured by the shadows as Bruce watched him feed a stray cat what appeared to be a milkshake with way too many sprinkles on top. 

The scene was so bizarre, so out of place given their surroundings, that Bruce found himself oddly charmed. He hadn’t been with another man since college, so the possibility of choosing a male prostitute hadn’t even entered his mind – until now, that was. He hadn’t exactly tried to keep his sexuality a secret, not on purpose anyway, it was just that going out with a man in public had always seemed like the less convenient option when his only goal had been to maintain his image of a shallow, carefree playboy. All of a sudden, he felt an almost rebellious sense of excitement at the prospect of doing something he wasn’t supposed to, even if he would be the only one to know.

Before he had the chance to overthink it, Bruce abruptly stopped the car right in front of the intriguing man, who still seemed to care more about feeding stray cats than he did about attracting prospective clients. Unsure about the proper protocol in this type of situation – it wasn’t like hiring a prostitute had been covered in Billionaire 101 – Bruce cautiously rolled down the passenger window, just the fraction of an inch. It didn’t take long until one of the men standing close by sauntered up to him, an easy but not entirely genuine grin plastered on his tired face.

“What can I do ya for, sugar?” he drawled, leaning against Bruce’s car, obscenely chewing gum while running both of his hands through his long, dirty blonde hair. 

“I – I was wondering if… The guy over there, with the cat, can I talk to him?” Bruce stuttered, probably making it painfully obvious that he’d never done this before.

“Sure thing,” Chewing Gum said with a tight smile, visibly annoyed that Bruce wasn’t here for him, “John? Get your ass over here, you lucky bastard…” he shouted and gave Bruce a mock salute before walking away. 

Bruce saw the man – John, he reminded himself – jump to his feet at the mention of his name before skipping towards Bruce’s car with what could only be described as childlike glee, once more creating a jarring contrast with their surroundings.

“I’m going to need another one of these because the cat drank mine,” John offered in place of a greeting, jerking his thumb over his shoulder with one hand and waving around his now empty milkshake with the other, “But other than that, I charge 20 for a quickie and 60 for the whole night, does that sound fair?”

Bruce was stunned into silence by the other man’s unnaturally wide smile and the way it tugged away at a distant memory, so he simply nodded and opened the passenger door, watching as John excitedly clapped his hands and slid into Bruce’s car in one, swift motion.

“Hi, I’m –” Bruce began, briefly considering using a fake name, when John abruptly took off his sunglasses and gaped at him, mouth hanging open and eyes wide.

“Brucie?” he squealed, his eyes – acid green eyes, Bruce dimly noted – growing even larger as he looked Bruce up and down, and it was then that realisation dawned on Bruce with all the pleasantness of having a bucket of ice water dumped over his head. Brief as though their only previous encounter had been, he would know those eyes anywhere.

“John!” he blurted out, the puzzle pieces of the other man’s more than commonplace name and his not at all commonplace smile slowly starting to slide together into what was shaping up to be a horribly humiliating picture.

“Fancy meeting you here, buddy,” John recovered quickly from his initial surprise at seeing Bruce, already schooling his features into something less shocked and more… flirtatious, for lack of a better word, “Aren’t I a lucky boy?” he purred, crossing his bare legs and leaning back into his seat in an undeniably deliberate – and to Bruce’s horror successful – attempt to make his skirt ride up dangerously high. 

Bruce cleared his throat to hide his embarrassment and fought the urge to avert his eyes from the provocative display. Instead, he forced himself to take in the former Arkham inmate’s uncharacteristically blond hair – a cheap wig, as he now recognised – and his pale but nowhere near white skin. With a frown, he realised that John must have covered his entire body, or at least the parts Bruce could currently see, in a slightly darker shade of make-up than his naturally unnatural complexion.

Nevertheless, the wide, toothy grin and the glowing green of his eyes were unmistakable, and Bruce silently cursed himself for not realising sooner whom he had just invited into his car. _To have sex with_ , a treacherous voice in his head pointed out, and he could feel himself blushing furiously all over. 

A loud noise startled Bruce from his rapidly spiralling thoughts; he belatedly realised that there were cars waiting behind him, and at least one of them was now honking at him angrily. He thought he could hear someone shouting for them to ‘get it on’, their choice of words not exactly aiding Bruce’s mortification, but he was glad for the excuse to fiddle with his car keys and focus on manoeuvring his way out of Alleytown as he tried to figure out what to do or say next.

“When did you get out of Arkham?” was what he settled on eventually, praying that John would play along with his decidedly unsubtle attempt at avoiding the elephant in the room, at least until his mind stopped reeling long enough for him to decide on the best course of action.

“Didn’t you hear? I was cured, not too long after you left, maybe a month or two – of course, you would have known that, if you’d ever bothered to come visit dear old me, and after I so _kindly_ assisted in your escape…” John giggled, but there was an edge to his voice that Bruce didn’t much care for. He refused to feel apologetic for not visiting John; after all, the other man’s ‘kind assistance’ in his escape had involved getting another inmate stabbed to death by Victor Zsasz.

“And… how have you been doing?” Bruce continued lamely, the cruel irony of his question not lost on John if his boisterous snort was anything to go by.

“How does it look like I’m doing, darling?” he drawled, his tone suddenly a lot darker. Bruce could see out of the corner of his eye that the other man’s grin was still firmly in place, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes anymore.

“Sorry, stupid question,” Bruce conceded, the tension bleeding from his shoulders a bit when John hummed noncommittally and waved his hand as if to say ‘don’t worry about it’. They both fell silent for a while, Bruce’s eyes resolutely fixed on the road, while John was staring quietly out the window at the imposing skyline over Gotham River.

“You do realise we have passed the same Chinese restaurant twice now, right? The night’s young, Brucie, but I don’t have forever, so we better get a move on,” John piped up after a few minutes, once more levelling that cryptic smile of his at Bruce.

“Right… right, of course, sorry,” Bruce apologised again, though for what he wasn’t quite sure, “Do you want me to drop you off somewhere?” he gave John a strained smile that he hoped conveyed his embarrassment at having handled their accidental reunion so poorly. Instead of the relieved giggle he had expected, John’s face twisted into something Bruce could only describe as acerbity, bitter and sharp and angry all at the same time.

“Drop me off? What, now that you know who I am, and that I came straight from the loony bin, you don’t want to do this anymore, is that it? That’s fucking rich, Bruce, considering where you and I met,” John hissed lowly, leaning into Bruce’s personal space until he could feel the other man’s breath on his cheek. At that, Bruce’s head snapped around, his embarrassment momentarily forgotten, and he shot John an incredulous look.

“What? No, John, that’s not – that’s not it _at all_ – I just thought you’d be uncomfortable given our… history. I never meant to imply that there was anything wrong with you,” Bruce insisted, holding John’s livid gaze, and he meant every word. 

John was an odd fellow, sure, and Bruce felt horribly awkward about the situation he’d put them both in, but his suggestion to drop John off and forget this ever happened had nothing, _nothing_ to do with John’s past. Frankly, the accusation, unfounded as it was, stung. John might not have intended for it to come across the way it did, but Bruce was determined to make him, and everyone else who questioned his stance on the matter, understand that he was nothing like his father.

John eyed him for a moment, studying his face with an intensity that made Bruce’s skin crawl for reasons he wasn’t willing to dissect right now; then, slowly, his features relaxed a little and he nodded, quick and sharp, as though he had decided that Bruce was being genuine. 

“You really don’t do this a lot, do you?” John chuckled humourlessly, but there were no traces of anger left in his voice. Bruce was grateful for small mercies and huffed a dry laugh at John’s all too accurate observation.

“I _never_ do this,” he muttered quietly, realising too late that he had spoken out loud. It earned him another contemplative glance from his companion, although he didn’t so much see as he felt the other man’s shrewd eyes on him.

After that, John stayed quiet for a while, seemingly content to let Bruce drive them in circles, leaving each of them to sort out their own thoughts. It wasn’t long, however, before Bruce noticed him nervously fiddling with his hands, staring down at his lap and actively avoiding Bruce’s eyes for the first time since he’d stepped into his car.

“Look, I, uh… I could really use the money and – I mean, at least I know you, I know you’re not going to make me do anything I don’t want to, right?” he whispered tonelessly, “So, if you’re still up for it…” he trailed off with a dejected shrug, his gaze still fixed on his hands. 

The implication that there had been clients in the past who had forced John to do things he wasn’t comfortable with made Bruce tighten his grip on the steering wheel. The sudden flare of irrational anger at things he had no control over and the unbidden surge of protectiveness he felt for the other man took him by surprise – he wouldn’t have thought himself capable of feeling this way about someone he hardly even knew, not for a long time, not with what this city had turned him into. 

Sighing inwardly, he figured the damage was done – this whole situation couldn’t possibly get any more awkward, and while he had absolutely no intention of making use of John’s… services, he figured he could at least keep him off the streets for one night, maybe give him enough money to afford a warm meal once in a while. His instincts told him that John wouldn’t appreciate something that might come across as pity, though, so he kept his plan to himself for the time being and simply nodded before turning the car around to make his way back to the Manor.

“You still haven’t told me where we’re going,” John sing-songed after a few minutes of silence, and Bruce suspected that moments of silence would be far and few between in John’s company.

“My place,” he replied curtly, hating the conclusion John was sure to draw from his words, but unwilling to correct his misperception just yet.

“What about my milkshake?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m trying really hard not to be judgmental or disrespectful towards sex work. I’m not sure if writing a Pretty Woman AU is, in itself, insensitive in any way but I will do my best to try and avoid the whole ‘damsel in distress has to be rescued by rich knight in shining armour’ trope. I kind of have to include some problematic episodes John that went through as a sex worker, and we all know Bruce canonically has a bit of a saviour complex, but as far as I’m concerned, he needs just as much saving as John does, if not more, and I’ll make sure that shines through eventually.
> 
> Any feedback would be very much appreciated :)  
> I hope you liked this! <3


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
> If failed attempts at humour and corny references to 80s music aren’t what you’re here for, you may want to leave now. 
> 
> To everyone who read the first chapter, left kudos, or even a comment: THANK YOU SO MUCH! I hadn’t written anything in years before I started this story and I was so nervous about posting it, so it truly means the world to get such a lovely response.  
> 

Half an hour and one diabetic-coma-inducing milkshake later, Bruce and John arrived at the Manor. John had spent the entire journey chattering about anything and everything, switching from one anecdote to the next at a rapid-fire pace that had Bruce struggling to keep up. He hadn’t been fooled by John’s determinedly cheerful tone, nor had he missed the calculated neutrality of every single one of his stories, but the other man had seemed content for him to just hum along and Bruce had been glad for the excuse not to have to make conversation.

Considering the glittery stiletto heels he was wearing – which matched his equally sparkly purse but looked much too small for his feet – John managed to walk up the gravelly driveway towards the Manor with surprising grace, whistling loudly when the imposing Gothic estate came into view.

“Holy moly – just how rich _are_ you?” he asked, not bothering to hide his astonishment in the slightest, and Bruce decided that John’s apparent lack of brain-to-mouth filter was as refreshing as it was off-putting.

“Pretty rich,” he shrugged, seeing no point in denying the obvious. At that, John’s eyes narrowed in suspicion; if his instincts hadn’t already told him that something was off about this whole situation, the cogs in his head were certainly starting to turn now.

“You’re not going to kill me and harvest my organs or something, are you?” John stared at him intently, and Bruce tried not to feel offended that this was apparently the most plausible explanation the other man could come up with for why Bruce Wayne would want to pick up a hooker from the East End.

“I wasn’t planning on it,” Bruce replied with as much composure as he could muster, “It’s not like I need the money,” he reasoned, cocking his head to the side as he watched for John’s reaction. It was the most logical retort he could think of, but he had a sneaking suspicion that logic and John weren’t very well-acquainted.

“Fair point,” the other man conceded, momentarily appeased, but the shrewd glint in his eyes told Bruce that he wouldn’t get away with witty quips and half-truths for much longer.

Alfred opened the front door before Bruce had the chance to fumble around for his keys. Bruce realised with what he could only describe as wistfulness, that the older man must have been checking the security feed in the Batcave prior to their arrival – old habits did indeed die hard, he guessed.

“Welcome home, Master Bruce,” Alfred greeted them as though nothing were amiss, but he eyed the pair of them with no small amount of confusion. John had clearly done his best to disguise his unnervingly white skin and the grassy green hair that made him so easy to spot in a crowd, but his decidedly… risqué outfit shattered any semblance of normalcy his efforts might have otherwise achieved – as well as any chance Bruce might have had to pass this off as anything other than exactly what it was. He opened his mouth to offer some sort of explanation, but John cut him off by spinning his head around so fast Bruce was surprised he didn’t give himself whiplash.

“You even have a _butler_? And you pay him enough to do the English accent and everything?” he exclaimed excitedly, waving his hands around in Alfred’s vague direction before stepping into the foyer uninvited. Glancing at the impossibly thin line of Alfred’s lips and his subtly raised left eyebrow, Bruce followed suit with all the confidence of a child who had just gotten caught with their hand in the cookie jar. Except he wasn’t a child anymore but a full-grown adult and removing his hand from this particular cookie jar would involve discussing his sex life with Alfred. The thought alone made him cringe.

“John, this is Alfred, whose accent is, in fact, the real deal. Alfred, this is John, an old friend I met… at a bar,” Bruce offered unconvincingly, half-amused and half-intimated by Alfred’s unimpressed glare. The other man’s ability to have entire conversations with only his eyes was uncanny, to say the least. 

“Pleased to meet you, good sir,” John said in his worst fake English accent, offering his hand for Alfred to shake.

Bruce counted his lucky stars that John had gone along with the blatantly obvious lie, but he felt an uncomfortable twinge of something he couldn’t identify at the realisation that having to contrive alternate identities and fabricate stories about how he and a client had met was likely not an uncommon occurrence in John’s line of work. He knew of course that Alfred would demand the truth later, but he figured he would cross that exceptionally humiliating bridge when he came to it. 

“Likewise,” Alfred replied dryly, shaking John’s proffered hand. His manic grin clearly did nothing to set the older man’s mind at ease, if the tense set of his shoulders was anything to go by. Bruce understood the feeling all too well.

After they had shaken hands, John’s fascination with Alfred wore off in an instant. He walked further into the foyer, strutting around like he owned the place and running his long, spindly fingers over every surface he could reach. Doing his best to drown out John’s excited muttering in the background and trusting that there was only so much damage the other man could do if left unsupervised, Bruce turned to Alfred with an apologetic smile.

“Master Bruce?” Alfred inquired calmly, in that voice of his that, even after all these years, never failed to make Bruce feel like a naughty child.

“John really is an old… friend,” Bruce started, figuring that much was true at least, “Remember the guy who helped me get out of Arkham?” he winced as realisation dawned on the older man’s face.

“The one who caused the untimely demise of another inmate to provide you with an opportunity to use the phone?” Alfred stated matter-of-factly, eyebrow twitching in the tiniest sign of irritation at who Bruce had invited into their home. Not sure what else to do, he nodded.

“And you met him at a bar,” Alfred repeated Bruce’s earlier account, peering at him from under his glasses in a way that made it very clear that he wasn’t buying a word of what Bruce was saying.

“I’ll explain everything later, okay?” Bruce said brusquely, hoping to put off the inevitable interrogation for as long as possible. He knew he would have to give Alfred some answers eventually, but he really needed to deal with the more pressing problem first – and that was the one currently inspecting his home décor.

“Very well,” Alfred acquiesced, straightening his back, “Will you and… our guest require dinner?”

“Just… something small, and maybe some tea?” Bruce bit his lip, “And could you also make up one of the guest bedrooms? One of the nicer ones,” he added carefully, not wanting to push his luck. Alfred nodded without another word, and Bruce squeezed his shoulder as a silent promise that he had everything in hand. Or so he liked to tell himself.

When Bruce caught up with John, who was holding an ancient vase that was probably worth more than entire apartment complexes in the East End, he pointedly cleared his throat. John hastily put the vase back on its plinth and had the decency to look sheepish for the fraction of a second, before his expression changed into something predatory that made the hair on the back of Bruce’s neck stand up.

“So, where do you want me, lover boy?” he licked his pale lips, and Bruce fought the blush daring to creep up his neck – unsuccessfully, if John’s loud cackle was any indication. 

“Why don’t we go to the lounge? Alfred’s preparing a little something for us to eat,” he suggested, giving John an odd look as the other man started laughing even louder, “What’s so funny?” 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he choked out in between giggles, running his hands over his cheeks as if to wipe away non-existent tears, “It’s just, you know you don’t have to buy me dinner first, right? That’s kind of the whole point of this arrangement,” he explained, pointing his index finger at Bruce, them at himself, then at Bruce again. 

“I’d like to,” Bruce said simply, and started walking up the stairs.

–

In the lounge, Bruce sat down in his favourite armchair, the one his father had used to sit in back when Bruce had been small enough to still fit onto his lap, and patiently watched as John gave the room the same treatment as he had the foyer. He was once again struck by how peculiar he found John’s behaviour; most people were impressed when they were given the grand tour of his home for some reason or other, but most of them also did a much better job at hiding it. Most of them, Bruce amended, _tried_ to hide it. 

John didn’t. His awe, his bewilderment, even his distaste when he inspected what he appeared to consider a particularly hideous piece of furniture, were all plain as day, and Bruce was under no illusion that John _could_ mask his emotions if he so chose. Then again, he mused, perhaps John Doe simply wasn’t like most people, and Bruce was surprisingly okay with that. It was… unusual, and as far as he was concerned, unusual was alright. It wasn’t boring, at least.

When John finished his inspection of the room and unceremoniously plopped down onto the sofa opposite Bruce, Bruce cleared his throat again. He’d had some time to choose his words carefully, but he was still not quite sure how to handle the delicate situation he had unwittingly navigated them into.

“John, I don’t mean to pry, but…” he started, making John huff a dry laugh before he flashed Bruce a knowing smile.

“But you want to know how I ended up, ah, working the night shift?” he guessed, bright eyes shining with too much intelligence for his own good, but he didn’t seem offended by Bruce’s curiosity, “Tell you what, buddy, why don’t you explain to me what Gotham’s most eligible bachelor is doing looking for company in the East End, and I’ll let you know which extraordinarily lucky twist of fate you have to thank for our reunion,” he winked at Bruce. 

“That seems… fair,” Bruce conceded, “Would you believe me if I said it was exactly what it looked like?” 

“Well, I sure hope it is,” John purred, “But that’s not what I meant, and you know it,” he tutted, crossing his arms and regarding Bruce expectantly. 

“I guess… I guess I was sort of hoping no one would recognise me there. I can’t exactly go to any of the, uh, more glamorous places without photographic evidence of it showing up in tomorrow’s newspaper,” he admitted, pinching the bridge of his nose and hoping that one half of the story would be enough to satisfy John’s curiosity for now.

“And look how that turned out!” John barked a laugh, clearly amused by Bruce’s plight.

“Your turn,” Bruce pressed on, both because he didn’t want to dwell on his own reasons for how he’d ended up where he was and because he was genuinely curious about John’s.

“Do you want the long version, or the short version? Or the version in which I pretend to be a spy for the Russian government – oh, oh, _please_ let’s go with that one, I do so like to pretend to be all mysterious…” John sighed dreamily.

“I want whatever version you’re comfortable telling me, but I prefer the truth,” Bruce replied, settling for honesty. His words made John furrow his brows in confusion again, like he couldn’t quite figure out if Bruce was messing with him. Bruce hated that John’s instinctual reaction to any form of basic human decency appeared to be suspicion, but he also knew that this wasn’t the right time to start digging into that, so he filed the information away for later.

“Well, once upon a time, in a little padded cell not too far from here…” John started, spreading his arms theatrically.

“John…” Bruce growled impatiently, his voice slowly but surely approaching Batman levels of gruff.

“Fine, fine, save some of that ferocity for later, will ya,” John smirked, but thankfully dropped the act and slumped back into the cushions of the sofa.

“After I got out of Arkham, things weren’t exactly… easy, you know? I mean, have _you_ ever tried applying for a job without so much as a birth certificate and no references other than your release papers from a mental institution? No? Didn’t think so,” he motioned at their surroundings, but to Bruce’s surprise, his tone of voice was different from the one those trying insinuate that he must have had it oh-so-easy in life tended to use. It wasn’t bitter, merely resigned.

“Anyway, I tried out for a couple of run-of-the-mill jobs, at first, but they were always like ‘Could you provide us with any references from your previous employers, Mr. Doe?’ and ‘Can you drive a car, Mr. Doe?’ and ‘Do you speak Mandarin, Mr. Doe?’ yadda yadda, so it never really worked out in the end,” he shrugged, like that was all there was to it.

Bruce grimaced. Over the last decade or so, he’d spent a considerable amount of time and money on putting criminals behind bars or into the padded cells at Arkham that John had alluded to earlier, but in all these years, he’d never given much thought to how those who managed to get out after serving their sentences would fare in the real world.

“When I was running out of money, my friend from Arkham, she suggested I give this a try – and whaddaya know, turns out no one wants to see any credentials when all they want you to do is to, ah, do the horizontal tango with them, if you catch my drift…” John gave him a shy, almost bashful smile, and Bruce felt the guilt gnawing at him. 

He knew he played no part in John’s story, and that their brief encounter in Arkham had nothing to do with the path John had chosen for himself, but he also knew that there had to be others for whom the same wasn’t true. If Alfred were here right now, he would tell Bruce that he couldn’t assume responsibility for every single thing that went wrong in Gotham, and yet he couldn’t help but wonder how many of the lives of the men and women he had passed by in the East End earlier that night had, at one point or another, been adversely affected by the Batman.

“I’m sorry,” was all Bruce could think to reply, but as he watched John’s face grow hard and closed off, he quickly realised that it had been the wrong thing to say.

“I don’t need your pity,” John hissed sharply – then, in the blink of an eye, his facial expression shifted again into something forcedly casual. Bruce wondered briefly if he’d end up getting dizzy if he spent too much time around this strange man and his volatile, yet somehow not at all random emotions. To his own surprise, he found that he would at least like to find out.

“Besides, I’m a natural at it,” John grinned at him lasciviously, and Bruce had never been happier to see Alfred walk through the door with a plate of sandwiches, a pot of tea, and two fine china mugs. 

“Will there be anything else, Master Bruce?” Alfred asked politely, all traces of his former confusion gone and replaced with his impeccable brand of professionalism, which was no doubt one of the reasons Thomas Wayne had chosen to employ him all those years ago. 

“No, thanks, Alfred,” he gave the older man a reassuring smile, silently letting him know that he was free to retire for the night.

“Very well. Good night, Master Bruce, Mr. Doe,” Alfred offered them both a curt nod before he turned around to leave the room, though not without shooting Bruce another meaningful look, no doubt reminding him that the last word on this rather strange turn of events had not been spoken.

“Night, Al!” John shouted after him, “I can call him Al, right?” John returned his attention to Bruce, his slight frame shaking again with giggles, “You know, like in that song?” he continued, but waved his hand dismissively when Bruce gave him a blank look. “Nevermind…” he muttered and grabbed a sandwich.

–

Bruce was still mulling over John’s story, absent-mindedly grabbing his third sandwich for no other reason than to stall for time, when he noticed movement in the corner of his eye. He looked up to see John watching him, expression unreadable as he put down his teacup and slowly walked over to where Bruce was sitting. 

“So, now that you’ve wined and dined me, and Jeeves is off to bed, how about you and I move things… elsewhere?” John asked, gracefully sliding into Bruce’s lap and looping one of his gangly arms around his neck, “Unless you’d prefer to do it right here, I’ll have you know I’m quite _flexible_ ,” he leaned in to whisper into Bruce’s ear, emphasising the last word to make sure its double meaning wasn’t lost on Bruce. 

Bruce shuddered as the other man’s hot breath ghosted over his ear. John mistook his reaction for encouragement and pressed even closer into Bruce, making his heart rate speed up in alarm.

“No, look, John, I – I don’t think we should do this…” he squirmed a little, angling his face away from John’s in an attempt to put some much-needed distance between them.

“Ugh, if this is about you and me having history again, don’t you worry, buddy, I can be whoever you want me to be tonight,” John made a show of rolling his eyes; his words, however, made Bruce halt and meet his gaze. He searched the other man’s eyes just in time to see them growing distant, bright green fogging over, almost as if John were preparing for his mind to go elsewhere for a little while. Had there been any doubt left in Bruce as to how he should handle this situation, it would have vanished this instant.

He placed his hands on John’s hips, gently but firmly, and lifted him off his lap. The other man was so light that Bruce had no trouble manhandling him, even after months of skipping out on his ‘nightly workouts’, and it made something in Bruce’s chest ache for him. When John realised what was happening, he let out an indignant huff and threw his hands up in exasperation. Spotting a pattern, Bruce held up one hand before John could launch into another tirade about Bruce’s alleged hypocrisy.

“This is not about you, John, it’s –” he began, instantly cut off by John’s sharp laugh. The sound held no remnants of his previous playfulness.

“Are you seriously going to give me the ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ speech, Bruce, really?” he demanded, cold gaze levelled at Bruce, who crossed his arms defensively, feeling more than a little called out because that was exactly what he’d been about to do.

“Well, it’s the truth, alright? I just can’t do this whole… paying for sex thing,” he blurted out, shoulders slumped in defeat. It wasn’t the whole truth, but it was all he was willing to give John in terms of an explanation right now.

“Reaaaally, now why do I find that so hard to believe given your reputation?” John pouted – outright pouted – and Bruce was momentarily taken aback by how adorable it made the other man look, so it took a moment for the words to truly register in his brain.

“Did you – did you just slut-shame me?” he heard himself say before he could think better of it, staring at John incredulously. John stared back for a second, before he erupted into another violent fit of giggles at Bruce’s indignation.

“I guess I did, didn’t I? What, are you telling me the tabloids have gotten it wrong all these years?” he challenged, but the anger had left his voice and Bruce could feel a little bit of the tension in the room dissipate with it.

“It’s… complicated,” Bruce got out through gritted teeth, praying that the finality in his voice communicated his unwillingness to further discuss the legitimacy of his reputation as Gotham’s resident philanderer. This whole situation was weird enough without him having to convince John that, contrary to popular belief, he very rarely took anyone to bed, and when he did, it was mostly for show. He almost never derived any pleasure from it beyond that of the physical relief.

“Of course it is,” John rolled his eyes again, frustration evident in his voice as he moved to grab his purse and made for the door.

“Wait, please,” Bruce rushed towards him and grabbed his wrist, though why his every instinct was screaming at him to keep John from leaving he had no idea, “I still owe you a favour, don’t I? From back in Arkham?”

“… I guess, so?” John eyed him warily again, but at least he let go of the door handle and Bruce counted that as a win.

“Then stay,” he said, looking at the other man pleadingly.

“Okay, could you please stop changing your mind every five minutes, how is a girl supposed to keep up!” John sighed loudly, pulling his wrist out from Bruce’s tight grip to cross his arms.

“No, I mean, stay the night… as my guest, nothing happens,” Bruce clarified, “You said 60 for the whole night, right? I’ll give you 600.”

“Gee, thanks, Bruce, but no thanks – I don’t need your charity,” John snorted derisively and Bruce couldn’t help but admire his stubbornness, frustrating as it was.

“I know you don’t,” Bruce reassured him, although he could tell that John was in no position to refuse that much money and he hated himself more than a little for having chosen to exploit that, “But it’s not charity – I’ve already taken up so much of your time, and even if I drove you back to the East End right now, the night would be almost over by the time we got there, wouldn’t it?” Bruce’s argument was sound, but John’s cold, calculating gaze told him that the other man knew perfectly well that he was making it up as he went. He stared Bruce down for what felt like an eternity, but eventually averted his eyes in a reluctant admission of defeat.

“1000, and we have a deal,” he murmured after a while, eyes fixed on the mahogany floor of the lounge, “And only because you owe me a favour!”

“Done,” Bruce agreed without hesitation, which made John’s head snap up, a complex series of emotions passing over his face.

“I could have asked for a lot more there, couldn’t I?” he asked dryly, obviously remembering too late where he was and who he’d been negotiating with. 

“Probably,” Bruce shrugged awkwardly, but decided against telling John he still could ask for more, if he wanted. For the first time all night, he seemed to have read the room correctly, and John’s face split into a resigned smile.

“You’re a pretty odd guy, and that’s saying something, coming from me,” he shook his head almost fondly, and Bruce let out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. 

“Okay, so where do I get to lay my pretty head? The bedsheets better be the finest Egyptian cotton, I won’t settle for anything less!” John placed his hands on his hips and looked at Bruce expectantly.

“Silk, actually,” Bruce smirked as he saw John’s eyes widen, before he schooled his features back into a terrible attempt at a poker face.

“I guess that’ll do, too,” he inclined his head magnanimously, “Lead the way, buddy.”

–

Bruce had to check a couple of bedrooms before he found the one Alfred had prepared, and allowed himself to feel just a tiny bit smug when John gaped at the cream-coloured clawfoot bathtub in the en suite that could easily fit two people his size. 

“Feel free to use anything you want in here.”

“You can bet your deliciously firm billionaire ass that I will – sorry, sorry, force of habit, sort of comes with the job description,” John scratched the back of his head sheepishly at Bruce’s grimace.

As he threw himself onto the freshly made bed, looking exhausted but also genuinely at ease for the first time all night, Bruce felt his own shoulders relax a little. He was just about to leave, when a thought hit him.

“Hey, John?” he began, interpreting the tired grunt he received in response as an invitation to go on, “Why didn’t you come to me after you got out of Arkham? You must have known I could have helped, and I owed you that favour, too.”

At that, John propped himself up on his elbows, regarding Bruce with a sombre expression. Bruce couldn’t help but think about how wrong the other man looked, with the blonde wig and make-up that should have made him appear less outlandish and yet somehow had the exact opposite effect. Only his eyes were the same as they had been when the two of them had first met, drawing Bruce in and seeing more than he was comfortable showing, an unlikely but inevitable anchor for him to hold on to. And wasn’t that exactly what he had gone to the East End looking for?

“I know, but I didn’t feel like asking for a favour you’d only agreed to because you were desperate to get out of there – not my style,” he tried to shrug, but the movement looked a little awkward in his current position. 

“That’s… nice,” Bruce said eloquently.

“Yeah,” John snorted, “I’m practically Mother Teresa, Dr. Leland would be sooo proud,” he chuckled dryly at his own joke, “Now get out, a deal’s a deal – I’m just gonna take a shower and then I really need my beauty sleep,” he half-heartedly threw a pillow in Bruce’s direction – and missed by a mile.

“Good night, John,” Bruce said and quietly closed the door to John’s room before making his way towards his own, a bemused smile playing on his lips and a plan beginning to form in his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
> Again, sorry for Bruce’s obvious saviour complex – I promise John (and I) will continue to call him out on that in the future, but for the time being it’s a necessary evil to set up the story. Also, the interactions between Alfred and John are half the reason I’m writing this whole thing because Telltale deprived us of those, so hopefully you enjoy them, haha!  
> I hope you liked this! <3  
> 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
> It should go without saying but I'm going to say it anyway: your lovely comments mean the world to me, peeps <3  
> I have this whole story planned out (some chapters in a bit more detail, others a bit less) but sometimes your input and ideas still make me take a different turn, rethink certain lines of dialogue and so on, and I love that - so keep them coming!
> 
> Bonus points for spotting the not-at-all-subtle reference to the Lego Batman movie, which is just about the most wholesome thing I’ve ever seen in my life.  
> 

Bruce awoke with a jolt the next morning, the familiar heaviness of his eyelids and the stiffness of his limbs both telltale signs of another restless night. After years of sleeping through the day and working through the night, it had taken him a long time to establish a more or less regular sleep pattern, yet he rarely felt well-rested upon waking.

He didn’t have nightmares, none that he could remember in any case, but more often than not, his nights were spent tossing and turning, his mind resolutely refusing to calm down for more than a blissful few hours at a time. And as if that weren’t enough, the morning after he would always be left with an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach, like there was something he needed to remember but couldn’t, right at his fingertips yet somehow perpetually out of reach. 

Of course last night’s events hadn’t exactly been conducive to a good night’s sleep either. All things considered, Bruce supposed that their conversation could have turned into much more of a disaster than it had, and in the end, for better or worse, he had managed to convince John to spend the night. 

Still, it was a lot to process.

Bruce felt an almost compulsive need to rationalise his late-night visit to the East End and reconcile the reasons for it with his ultimate unwillingness to follow through, but there was also John’s side of the story to consider. Bruce had tried to do as the other man had asked and squash his instinctive reflex to feel sorry for him, he really had, but the longer he spent trying to convince himself that there was more to it than pity, the more he realised that he did, in fact, consider sex work something life chose for people, not something people chose for themselves.

Which meant that he had to consider the very real possibility that any plans he devised to help John find a different job were misguided at best and downright disrespectful at worst. Selling his body might not have been John’s first choice, that much he had admitted to, but that didn’t give Bruce the right to assume he wasn’t happy with his life right as it was.

Still, as Bruce had lain in bed, staring at the dark ceiling of his room, several of the night’s scenes had replayed in his head, over and over, until he was unable to tell whether these little snippets of their conversation were as important as his sleep-addled brain had him believe, or whether he just wanted them to be. John’s sarcastic response when Bruce had asked him how he was doing, the faraway look in his eyes when he’d told Bruce he could be whoever he wanted him to be, the months’ worth of exhaustion etched into his gaunt features…

And, worst of all, his offhand remark about being forced to do things against his will. Even if Bruce ignored all the other warning signs, that was something he just couldn’t let slide and he was fairly certain he wasn’t supposed to – no meant no, no matter your chosen profession, and if John was putting himself in danger, Bruce had to at least try to do something, didn’t he?

Unfortunately, even now, after sort of sleeping on it, he wasn’t any closer to figuring out what he _could_ do, let alone if he should. The only thing he knew for certain was that handing John his money and pretending this never happened wasn’t an option he was particularly keen on.

And that brought to mind another worry that had managed to worm its way into Bruce’s head: where was this coming from, really? Why did he all of a sudden feel so protective of John? Despite their brief alliance in Arkham, if you could even call it that, they weren’t friends by any stretch of the imagination – if anything, the encounter should have made Bruce wary of the other man, and the fact that it hadn’t was something else he would need to unpack at some point.

No, if he was being honest with himself, it seemed much more likely that this was just him latching onto the first opportunity to ‘save’ someone, whether they were in need of saving or not, because that was what he used to do as Batman. Saving people, making a difference in Gotham. But if that was really what this was all about, it was hardly fair to drag John into his messed-up excuse for a life. 

Then again, was it any fairer to deny someone the help they deserved just because it might be coming from the wrong place?

Bruce buried his face in his pillow and groaned in frustration. Reminding himself that he was unlikely to solve this or any other problem after a bad night’s sleep and before coffee, he rolled out of bed and pulled on the ridiculously flamboyant burgundy bathrobe Alfred had bought him as a joke once. 

“To really sell that playboy persona of yours,” the older man had mocked, but the damn thing was so comfortable that Bruce had since taken to wearing it nearly every day.

–

When Bruce entered the kitchen, Alfred was already preparing breakfast, looking much more awake than he had any right to be, but Bruce instantly forgave him when he was handed a mug of steaming hot coffee without having to ask for it. 

“Morning,” he mumbled, his voice still raspy from sleep, as he gratefully inhaled the steam emanating from his mug, “Thanks, Alfred.”

“Good morning, Master Bruce. How did you sleep?” Alfred asked gently. His tone of voice sounded innocent enough, but Bruce had known the other man too long not to recognise the smooth segue into a conversation he was nowhere near awake enough to have. He shrugged in response, sitting down at the kitchen table and burying his face in his mug.

“How is our guest?” Alfred continued, undeterred. 

“I don’t know, I haven’t seen him yet – look, Alfred, I know where this is going, and… can we please not do this right now?”

“And when would you like to do ‘this’ then?” Alfred stopped fiddling with the pots and pans on the stove and turned around to face Bruce, one eyebrow raised.

“Preferably never,” Bruce muttered, “But definitely not before I’ve had at least two more of these,” he raised his mug before taking another sip, relishing the bitter taste of the scorching hot liquid on his tongue. 

“Well, tough luck, Master Bruce, because I happen to have a spare minute and it seems to me that so do you,” Alfred sat down at the kitchen table opposite Bruce, chin resting on his folded hands, “Now, you have made it perfectly clear that you don’t want to discuss any of the details with me, but I don’t much appreciate being played for a fool. So let’s skip that part and cut right to the chase, shall we?”

It was an olive branch, if ever he was going to get one, and Bruce accepted it gladly. It seemed that between his rushed disappearance from the Manor and him showing up one and a half hours later with John in tow, the older man had managed to put two and two together. And while Alfred’s apparent awareness of his intentions to pay someone to have sex with him was no less terrifying in the harsh light of day than it had been the night before, Bruce was glad that he didn’t have to spell out the whole sordid story for him.

“Thanks,” Bruce muttered, “He, uh, slept in the guest room – alone,” he felt the need to add, feeling his cheeks heat up even as he said it.

“I thought as much,” Alfred failed to hide a small smile at Bruce’s embarrassment, but he didn’t say anything else, seemingly content to let the silence stretch between them while Bruce continued to drink his coffee.

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” he offered after a while, finally daring to meet Alfred’s eyes. He should have known better than to expect to find anything there but the sheer endless amount of patience he’d come to rely on over the years, but he nevertheless felt relieved not to see any judgment mixed in with it. 

“I’m not here to judge, Master Bruce. You’re a grown man, you can make your own choices,” Alfred replied as though he had read Bruce’s mind, “Even when these choices leave us with inappropriately dressed house guests,” he wrinkled his nose a little, and Bruce snorted into his coffee.

“Of all things, his improper attire is what you take umbrage at?” he asked disbelievingly.

“Far be it from me to judge a man in his… circumstances, but propriety is and always has been one of the pillars of society, Master Bruce,” Alfred said primly, “I do think, however, that rather than discussing Mr. Doe’s questionable fashion choices, we should talk about what you are planning on doing now that he’s staying with us?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, he _is_ an old friend, isn’t he? Of sorts?” Alfred stated more so than asked, a hidden meaning behind his words evident from the way he inclined his head and watched Bruce expectantly. Unfortunately, Bruce was utterly clueless as to what Alfred was getting at, so all he could do was stare back perplexedly, waiting for an explanation that never came. After a few moments of increasingly awkward silence, Alfred shook his head with an exaggerated sigh, and Bruce couldn’t help but feel that he had just failed some sort of test.

“Why don’t you bring him a cup of coffee, that seems as good a start as any,” he said as he fetched another mug of coffee from the kitchen counter and handed it to Bruce, “It’ll come to you.” 

Still at a loss, Bruce wordlessly accepted the second mug and turned to leave the kitchen to take it to John’s room, when he heard Alfred call after him.

“Oh, and don’t forget, you have dinner reservations at The Ocelot tomorrow night. I believe Commissioner Gordon is bringing his daughter,” Alfred reminded him, seemingly out of the blue, and Bruce just knew he had to be missing something painfully obvious.

–

Dispelling his confusion at Alfred’s odd remark, Bruce softly knocked on the door to John’s room. When he couldn’t hear anything from the other side, he decided to carefully push it open to make sure the other man was alright. As he peered through the crack, the first thing he noticed was the pale sunlight spilling into the room through half-drawn curtains, falling onto the bed and illuminating John’s sleeping face. Without meaning to, Bruce let the door slide open the rest of the way and smiled to himself, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe as he took in the scene in front of him.

John was lying on his side, knees drawn up to his chest and arms tucked into his body, and something in Bruce’s head slid into place at the sight. It didn’t take him long to figure out what it was, and his smile widened as his eyes fell onto the tangled mess of green hair splayed out on the pillow.

John looked like himself again. His body was wrapped up in the thick blanket all the way up to his chin, but the skin of his face was unmistakably lighter than the champagne-coloured sheets and the blonde wig lay discarded carelessly at the foot of the bed. He looked so much younger like this, so much more vulnerable, and Bruce suddenly had to resist the urge to walk over and run his hand through the other man’s hair to see if it felt as soft as it looked. 

Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, Bruce reminded himself that it was more than a little intrusive to watch John sleep, so he reluctantly averted his eyes. It was something he had grown so used to in his time as Batman, hiding in the shadows night after night, silently observing his city and its inhabitants, but somehow, it felt a lot more intimate when he wasn’t wearing his suit. He tiptoed over to the bed and deposited the coffee mug on the nightstand as quietly as he could, before slipping back out of the room to rejoin Alfred in the kitchen and tell him that he now knew what he wanted to do.

–

When John shuffled into the kitchen half an hour later, Alfred had left to run some errands in the city, but Bruce was still sat at the kitchen table, newspaper in hand. John was dressed in last night’s clothes, but his feet were bare, and he looked a lot more anxious than he had the night before; it was as if all his bravado had been washed away along with his make-up. He stopped in the doorway for a second, dishevelled hair falling into his face as he clung to the coffee mug Bruce had left on his nightstand, before he raised his hand and offered Bruce a shy little wave.

“Morning,” Bruce said softly, “How did you sleep?”

“Well,” John smiled at him as he awkwardly sat down on the chair opposite Bruce, “Really well actually, thanks,” he inclined his head, shoulders hunched and knees bobbing erratically. Bruce was struck with the thought that John likely didn’t do this part very often, that despite, or perhaps precisely because of his job, he was never given a script for the ‘morning after’. 

“Alfred made pancakes, if you want some?” he pointed at the stack of pancakes on the kitchen counter. The words were barely out of his mouth when John jumped up, loading three pancakes onto a plate and all but drowning them in maple syrup.

“You spoil me,” John winked at him before digging in, the gesture familiar but very different from the exaggerated displays of affection he had directed at Bruce the night before. Bruce couldn’t put his finger on what it was, but, somewhat curiously, John’s behaviour seemed more guarded yet more genuine at the same time.

“So… I’ve got to ask, what’s with the disguise?” Bruce asked as casually as he could, keeping his expression neutral as John turned his attention away from his pancakes to give him a quizzical look.

“Hm?” he cocked his head to the side before his eyes widened and his hand shot up to touch his hair, like he had only just realised that he had forgotten to put his wig back on. Bruce thought he caught a glimpse of insecurity flashing across the other man’s face, before he once again slipped on his metaphorical mask and shot Bruce another one of his coquettish smiles. 

“What’s the matter, Brucie, only like blondes?” John giggled a little, and Bruce instantly wished for the other, the candid version of him to come back. He had already recognised the affectation for what it was the night before, but now that he had seen the person and the persona side by side, the pretense made him uncomfortable. He wondered briefly if the handful of people who knew the real him, not Batman and not the illustrious heir to the Wayne family, but Bruce, just plain Bruce, ever felt that way when they watched him put on a show for the public.

“Come to think of it, I believe I prefer brunettes,” Bruce replied, sparing a brief thought for Talia and Selina as he pretended to play along with the charade, “But that’s not what I meant and you know it,” he repeated John’s words from last night back at him, which earned him a surprised laugh.

“Touché,” John said as he pointed his fork at Bruce, “Well, let me put it like this, how many people do you think prefer naturally green hair?” he smiled at Bruce sadly, and the penny dropped. 

“Oh.”

“Come on, don’t look at me like that, it’s no big deal – I was just tired of people assuming this was a wig and trying to pull it off me,” John pointed at his hair, still giggling, “And you’ll find I have quite a low tolerance for rude comments, so it’s just easier this way,” he shrugged and continued to devour his breakfast as if he hadn’t just confessed the need to disguise his natural hair and skin colour to avoid being poked and prodded at by the very people who paid him to sleep with them. 

Like so many other things he had noticed about the other man, his too thin waist or the skimpy outfit that had pneumonia written all over it, it shouldn’t have come as a surprise to Bruce that someone who looked as… unusual as John had to take certain precautions to ensure that prospective clients neither dismissed him nor singled him out for the wrong reasons. It still left a bitter taste in his mouth.

“How do you _do_ it?” Bruce couldn’t stop himself from asking. He didn’t want to repeat his mistake from the night before and upset the other man with what he now recognised to be an unhealthy mix of prejudice and ignorance, but he genuinely had trouble understanding how John – or anyone, for that matter – could stand to be around people who treated him like dirt, let alone be intimate with them.

“Do what, my job?” John laughed, “The same way most people do their jobs, constant boredom with the occasional side of self-pity?”

“I’m being serious.”

“So am I. Why is it so hard for you to wrap your head around the fact that it’s a job like any other?” John furrowed his brows, “It’s really not so bad most of the time, and it can be fun, you know? It’s a bit like performing in a play – I used to do that in Arkham aaall the time,” he smiled fondly at the memory of the asylum. Bruce thought it odd that anyone could feel nostalgic about the place, but he guessed it was the only home John had ever known.

“What about when it isn’t fun?” he pressed on, “When it’s someone you… you don’t want to be with, or someone who treats you badly? And don’t bother denying it, I heard you loud and clear in the car –”

“Easy!” John interrupted with another playful wink, “I just close my eyes and think of Batman.”

Bruce nearly spat out his coffee. 

“Wh – what? Why?” he coughed to hide his embarrassment, fixating a small dent in the wall behind John’s head to avoid looking at his face. 

“Uh, hello? Ever heard of tall, dark, and handsome? The guy practically invented the concept,” John placed his elbows on the table, bracing his chin on his hands with his palms resting on either side of his dreamy smile. 

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Bruce decided he wasn’t going to ask. This wasn’t a conversation he would ever feel comfortable having, and it didn’t seem like this line of inquiry was getting him anywhere anyway. John’s attempt to throw him off was by no means subtle – albeit successful, as he had to begrudgingly admit – and neither was his message. He clearly had no intention of further discussing the matter, and if Bruce had learned anything from their interactions so far, then it was that John didn’t like to be pushed.

“John, I have a business proposition for you,” he said, deciding that he might as well dive in head-first.

“‘I have a business proposition for you’?” John parroted, “Where the heck do they teach you to talk like that? Summer camp for douchebags?” he crossed his arms and pursed his lips.

“Do you want to hear it or not?”

“Why not, it’s not like I’ve got anywhere else to be before nightfall – another perk of the job, by the way,” John raised his chin defiantly and leaned back into his chair.

“How would you like to work for me for the rest of the month?” Bruce put his mug down and watched closely for the other man’s reaction.

“Work for you? As what? If you’re going to propose paying me just to sleep in that ridiculously oversized bed of yours for a month, I _will_ pour hot coffee over your face, don’t try me –” John narrowed his eyes, impossibly pale hands clutching the edge of the table, and Bruce had no trouble believing that he would do exactly as he said. Fortunately, Bruce had come prepared.

“No, I meant as my date.”

“As your date.”

“That’s what I said.”

“Why?” John relaxed back into his chair, but Bruce wasn’t naïve enough to believe that he wasn’t still walking through a conversational minefield. 

“Why not?” he shrugged, “I have a lot of events to attend this month – Christmas parties, charity galas, and probably a whole bunch of other commitments Alfred will have to remind me of – and I’ll need someone to accompany me,” Bruce explained. When he had run his plan to hire John as his date past Alfred earlier – strictly platonic of course, he had assured him, and nothing but a ruse to give himself some time to figure out if he could, or indeed should, offer John his help – the other man had feigned surprise, but Bruce wasn’t fooled.

He hadn’t had the time to ponder Alfred’s reasons for putting the idea in his head, but there was no mistaking the intention behind his not at all coincidental comment about Bruce’s dinner plans with Commissioner Gordon the next day. And it wasn’t a bad idea either – Bruce _would_ need to find a date for some of these events, and while there was a long list of reasons for why he should resort to one of his usual choices of an up-and-coming actress or a Russian ballerina over John, not least of all the uproar in the media that him bringing a male date would inevitably cause, it would certainly be… entertaining, of that he had no doubt.

“Cut the crap, Bruce,” John’s jaw tightened and he gave Bruce an unimpressed look, “I mean, why _me_? It’s not like you couldn’t take literally anybody else with your… your chiselled face and your abs and your stupidly large bathtubs and, oh, let’s not forget your humongous bank account!”

“I could,” Bruce didn’t miss a beat, “But I doubt any of them would make for as interesting company as you,” he said truthfully. It wasn’t fair to paint all of his previous dates with the same brush, but he couldn’t deny that he had gotten bored of doe-eyed looks and disingenuous flattery a long time ago.

“Yeah, right,” John stood up to brace himself on the table and peered at Bruce angrily, “What is this, some kind of knight in shining armour crap? Giving poor John a proper job, taking him off the streets and putting a fancier roof over his head? Well, newsflash, buddy, I’m no one’s damsel in distress!”

“Like I said –” Bruce raised his hands placatingly, an edge of desperation creeping into his voice as he felt his control over the situation slip away from him, but John didn’t let him finish.

“No, stop. Just… stop, okay?” John’s anger deflated as quickly as it had appeared, and his hands came up to tear at his hair in a genuine sign of distress that made Bruce worry that maybe he had pushed too far, “I’m not an idiot, Bruce, I know what you’re trying to do and I don’t want no part in it.”

“Precisely.”

“And besides,” John went on, then realised that Bruce had just agreed with him, “Wait, what?”

“You heard me – that’s exactly why I want you to stay, you’re not an idiot, far from it, and you’re not afraid to call me out on my bullshit. In fact, you’ve done it twice already and it’s not even been a day. Believe me when I say that that doesn’t happen a lot when you have as many ‘stupidly large bathtubs’ as me,” Bruce said, starting to realise that when it came to John, honesty really was the best policy.

“Look, needless to say this would be purely business. I just want you to keep me company and save me from a dreadfully boring time, I won’t touch you –”

“Shame,” John grinned at him, but the gesture felt hollow, merely a shadow of the faux flirtatiousness he must have realised Bruce wasn’t after.

“As I was saying,” Bruce went on, ignoring the interruption, “You’d have to be at my beck and call, so I think it would be best if you stayed here at the Manor for the rest of the month. I’ll make sure that you have everything you need, and of course I’ll pay you for your time.” 

“Handsomely, I’m sure,” John said dryly, “And after we’re done playing house for a month?”

“You get paid, and then you’re free to go...” Bruce bit his lip. He had known this part was coming and as much as he liked to pretend that there was no ulterior motive to his proposal, he wasn’t going to insult John by lying to him.

“Unless?”

“Unless, at any point along the way, you decide that there is something I can help you with. In that case, I reserve the right to make some inquiries. Does that sound fair?” Bruce folded his hands and held John’s piercing gaze.

“That’s a nice little loophole you left yourself there.”

“It is,” Bruce agreed because it was the truth, “Look, John, we can keep discussing terms, but… I’m sorry, I don’t know how to say this without sounding like an asshole –”

“Hasn’t stopped you so far,” John raised an eyebrow at him, but there was no heat behind it.

“Do you have any better job offers right now? I understand your misgivings about my motives, but you’d be making a lot more money, and under much better conditions,” Bruce reasoned calmly, “Plus, you’d still get to perform, like you said. Just in public, not in private – it’s arguably the grander production,” he was glad to see that his words had the desired effect as John’s face split into a genuine smile.

“Don’t think I can’t tell what you’re trying to do.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“How much?” John asked eventually, drumming his fingers on the kitchen table and worrying his lower lip with his teeth so hard he would soon draw blood.

“Well, let’s see. I won’t need you every day, but like I said, you’d have to stay here for a while, so if we can agree on 5,000 a week and we’re talking roughly three weeks… How does 15,000 sound?”

Bruce hated this part and it probably showed in the way his jaw clenched as he pretended that there was nothing wrong with him getting to put a price on another person’s time. He tried to play his offer off as a casual one, but he had actually put a decent bit of thought into it. He could have offered John a lot more money of course, but he didn’t think that would have gone down very well and prayed that, instead, this gamble of his would pay off.

“Except now I know I can ask for much more than that, Mr. Wayne,” John rested his chin on one hand and met Bruce’s gaze head-on, intelligent green eyes twinkling at him.

“Are you going to?” Bruce challenged, although something told him that he already knew the answer.

“I don’t think so,” John pursed his lips, his face unreadable.

“Do we have a deal then?” Bruce held out his right hand for John to shake.

“Fine,” he reluctantly slid his hand into Bruce’s, oblivious to his surprise at how warm John’s skin felt despite its deceptively cold colour, “Don’t make me regret this. Oh, and you’re going to have to drive me to my apartment at some point, I didn’t bring any of my make-up with me.”

“I’ll take you, and you can bring whatever you like, but you won’t need any make-up. Or wigs,” Bruce fixed John with a serious expression, wanting to make absolutely sure that the other man got this part. 

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, no disguises,” he reached out to touch the tips of his fingers to John’s hair, just for a moment, before pulling away, “I prefer it like this.”

“Oh.”

Nodding once for good measure, Bruce went back to reading his newspaper, biting back a smile at the blush adorning John’s cheeks, its pink colour a stark but not at all unpleasant contrast to the white of his skin. Like John, Bruce wasn’t an idiot – he knew full well that he had no idea what he’d just signed up for, but there was something intriguing about John, something that made him feel oddly at ease with the chaos he had no doubt just invited, quite literally, into his house and into his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
> Most of you probably know this but The Ocelot is one of the restaurants Bruce owns in the Nolan ‘verse. I used it because I couldn’t find any well-known Gotham restaurants other than the Iceberg Lounge and I felt like that was the last place Jim and Bruce would agree to have dinner, haha!
> 
> Also I realised long after I’d written the part about John performing in Arkham that the idea of Arkham organising plays for the patients was likely inspired by the Gotham TV series – oh well, it’s not like I haven’t already mixed every Batman universe under the sun, so what’s one more?  
> I hope you liked this <3  
> 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
> For those of you who have seen Pretty Woman, this monster of a chapter is my take on the shopping scene ;)
> 
> Small warning: someone experiences a panic attack in the second half of this, so if that bothers you in any way you may want to proceed with caution.  
> 

The car ride to John’s apartment in the East End had been uncharacteristically quiet, save for the occasional directions John had muttered to him. The other man had again been staring out the passenger window, chin propped up on his hand, with a contemplative expression that Bruce wasn’t sure what to make of. His instincts – unreliable as they were when it came to John – told Bruce that they were nowhere near the ‘caring and sharing’ stage of their friendship yet, so he had opted for mutual silence in the hopes that whatever was eating at the other man wouldn’t end up threatening their fragile-as-glass agreement.

John’s apartment was located in a modest but not too shabby-looking building near Gotham River. Breathing in the gust of cold wind that blew in through the open window of the car, Bruce thought he could just about pick up the familiar stench of the muddy waters close by, musty, with a hint of something chemical mixed into it; unpleasant in a way that shouldn’t have brought comfort to him but nevertheless did.

John had instructed Bruce to wait in the car while he went in to pick up ‘his stuff’, and although Bruce couldn’t deny his curiosity to see how John lived, he’d done as he was told. With nothing else to do, he found himself inspecting the old-fashioned brick building the other man had disappeared into, trying to figure out which apartment was John’s. And sure enough, he was soon greeted with a telltale crop of green hair flashing past one of the dusty windows on the second floor.

Leaning back in his seat, he followed the movement until it halted a few seconds later and, to Bruce’s surprise, a second person stepped into view. Had John mentioned having a roommate? Bruce didn’t think so. His view of their faces was partially obscured by the emblematic layer of grime covering every window in a two-mile radius, but he could tell that the woman looked none too happy to see John. 

Her blonde hair was cut into a short, no-nonsense bob that matched her cocky stance, hands on hips and leaning back slightly as she gave John an exaggerated once-over. Bruce watched, intrigued but also a little unsettled by the way John hunched in on himself under her scrutiny, scratching the back of his head nervously in a clear show of deference. When the woman bent forward to flick John’s forehead using her thumb and index finger, Bruce saw him take a cautious step away from her, making placating gestures with his hands and, judging by how fast his mouth was moving, babbling frantic excuses.

The tense but just-about-passing-for playful atmosphere between them seemed to shift in an instant as she grabbed John by the throat and forcefully shoved him against the window, the dull thud of John’s head hitting the windowpane loud enough to reach Bruce’s ears. He was out of his car in record speed, muscles tensed and teeth gritted, but when he looked up at the window again to figure out the quickest route to the apartment, the pair was bending over laughing, John’s hand clasped on the woman’s shoulder like she’d just told the funniest joke in the world.

Bruce blinked and shook his head, watching, perplexed, as she patted John’s cheek affectionately before he ducked out of sight, presumably into another room. Bruce briefly wondered whether perhaps he had imagined the whole thing, but as soon as John had disappeared from view, the woman’s sharp gaze zeroed in on him – like she had known the entire time that he was there. She crossed her arms and raised her chin at him defiantly, and although Bruce had no idea what her voice sounded like, he could almost hear her say, “What’re you gonna do about it?”

As she continued to glare at him, hips cocked to one side in the same, deliberate demonstration of brazenness he had just witnessed her direct towards John, Bruce wondered what on earth he could have possibly done to offend a woman he’d never even seen before, let alone spoken to. He debated waving, not believing for a moment that that would have done anything to appease her, but it felt odd not to acknowledge her existence when she was so blatantly shooting daggers at him. By the time he had decided that he couldn’t make things any worse, however, she had already walked off, leaving Bruce leaning against the hood of his car with yet more unanswered questions about John Doe and the turn his life had taken after Arkham.

It wasn’t much longer until the man in question skipped out of the building and towards him, oblivious to what had just transpired between Bruce and his roommate. Bruce noticed that John had changed into a tattered pair of burgundy slacks and a pale green, diamond-patterned shirt that should have clashed with his markedly darker hair colour but somehow didn’t. To Bruce’s dismay, he still wasn’t wearing a coat.

“All set!” John exclaimed and held up a tiny duffle bag in front of Bruce’s face as proof.

“Is that… everything?” Bruce winced inwardly when he realised that he sounded like an ass – again – but he needed to know whether the tiny bag in the other man’s hand really did contain most of John’s worldly belongings.

“You said no wigs and no make-up – what did you expect, a suitcase full of ballgowns?” John raised an eyebrow at him like he thought Bruce was being deliberately obtuse.

“Do you even have a coat in there?”

“Don’t need one – I can’t afford to hide the goodies at night,” John stretched out his arms and wiggled his shoulders to underline his words, “And it’s not that cold during the day!”

Bruce shot him an unimpressed look because yes, yes it was _that_ cold; in fact, the goosebumps under his own, much too thin shirt served as an unpleasant but well-timed reminder that Gotham’s winters were merciless, much like the rest of her. He took a deep breath and braced himself, knowing that his next words were not going to go down well, but they needed to be said regardless.

Not only was there no way Bruce would let John walk around in the middle of what was shaping up to be one of the coldest winters Gotham had seen in a while without so much as a coat, but if he planned on making good on his promise to employ John as his date rather than a glorified house guest, the other man would need a few outfits that matched the rigid dress code of the sort of events Bruce was forced to frequent. As much as he despised the pomp and the pretense that characterised the upper echelons of Gotham’s society, Bruce couldn’t deny the merits of playing by their rules, if only to avoid the unnecessary hassle. And rule number one was fitting in at all costs – in this case, literally.

On the drive over, Bruce had considered the inevitable repercussions of publicly taking out another man, but he realised now that the fact that John had a penis was going to be less of an issue than said penis not being clad in designer underwear – or outerwear, for that matter. Bruce didn’t want to examine too closely what that said about the company he kept, genuinely unsure whether their snobbery outweighing their latent homophobia was a good or a bad thing. What he did know was that he wouldn’t be doing John any favours by throwing him into the high-society equivalent of a shark tank dressed like what would no doubt look to them like a piece of subpar sushi.

“John, I think we’re going to have to go buy you some clothes,” Bruce said sternly, watching the other man’s face for any adverse reaction to his words, “Now I know you said you didn’t want –”

“Okay.”

“Okay? Just like that?” Bruce stared at him incredulously. He probably shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth, but he had been so sure that his suggestion would trigger another lecture about John not wanting to be cast in the role of Bruce’s charity case that the other man’s complete and utter lack of protest threw him for a loop. 

“Of course, silly – remember, not an idiot?” John tilted his head and rapped the knuckles of his right fist against it as if to show that it didn’t make a hollow sound, “I can’t exactly fulfill my duty as Bruce Wayne’s hired arm candy dressed like this now, can I?”

Bruce bristled at the term ‘hired arm candy’, but he couldn’t rightfully deny its accuracy, nor the truth behind John’s words, “So, just to be clear, you’re saying you’re okay with me buying you a couple of outfits?”

“Sure, whatever, feels like I’ve already sold my soul to you anyway, so what’s a few more presents from my new sugar daddy?” John waved his hand dismissively, brushing past Bruce to open the passenger door of the car and throw in the duffle bag.

“That’s not –” Bruce sighed in exasperation, his patience wearing thin, but he stopped himself when John swirled around with a wide grin and put a hand on his shoulder.

“Relax, Brucie, I’m kidding, geez – anyone ever tell you you have a giant stick up your ass?” he giggled, and there was a trace of unadulterated fondness in his eyes when he looked at Bruce. Much like the blonde woman’s apparent dislike of him, Bruce had no idea what he had done to deserve John’s adoration; it made him uncomfortable, though in an entirely different way than her disdain had mere moments ago.

“It may have come up, once or twice,” he admitted, shrugging John’s hand off as he made his way over to the driver’s side.

“Thought so,” John nodded sagely, “Plus, I can’t continue to scandalise poor Al with my indecent choice of clothing, can I?” he added in response to Bruce’s earlier question, directing a knowing wink at him.

“Noticed that, didn’t you?” Bruce replied dryly.

“Nothing gets past these peepers!” John chirped cheerfully, pointing two fingers at his bright green eyes, and Bruce was mildly unsettled by how true he believed those words to be. For all of John’s purported naïveté and his genuine inability to read basic social cues, he struck Bruce as surprisingly perceptive sometimes. In other words, not exactly the type of person that someone who had spent years trying to hide a double life should willingly surround themselves with.

“I reckon he’s got a better poker face than you, but I don’t think he was trying to hide it,” John mused, and Bruce had to agree with his observation. It was one of Alfred’s most cunning skills: conveying his disapproval in a way that was too subtle for its subject to take offence, yet never subtle enough for anyone to miss it.

“Anyway, let’s hit the road – just make sure to avoid any of those fancy-schmancy places where everything is shades of _beige_ and _taupe_ and whatever other boring-ass colours are all the rage with you rich people nowadays,” John pulled a pair of aviator sunglasses out of his back pocket and put them on as he yanked the passenger door of the car open, “Those really cramp my style.”

–

“So, you never said you had a roommate,” Bruce began, his tone carefully neutral as he drove them towards the city centre, taking turns and shifting gears from muscle memory rather than through conscious effort.

“Oh, Harls?” John looked at him in surprise, “Hey – wait, how did you…?”

“I saw you talking to her through the window while I was waiting,” Bruce supplied, privately thinking that ‘talking’ was too harmless a word to describe the interaction between John and the blonde woman – _Harls_ – he had witnessed.

“Wouldn’t have pegged you for a peeping tom,” John mocked and poked Bruce’s side playfully, just below his ribs. In a way, Bruce thought, he almost welcomed the by now familiar sense of mild exasperation that his every interaction with the other man seemed to bring about. He rarely ever spent enough time around anyone other than Alfred these days to establish that sort of familiarity, and it was reassuring that, at the very least, he appeared not to have lost the ability to do so.

“I was just – you know what, never mind. Is she your girlfriend?” Bruce asked, hoping once more that John wouldn’t mind the direct approach. Truth be told, prior to their conversation over breakfast, Bruce hadn’t really considered the possibility of someone in John’s profession having a partner, much less a woman, but he was nothing if not determined to challenge his own ignorance on the matter. 

Besides, if he put two and two together, it did make sense: John must have told her about their arrangement – after all, he had agreed, albeit implicitly, to stay at Wayne Manor for a month, which wasn’t exactly something you could hide from the person you lived with – so the two of them being in a relationship or something of the kind would be a logical explanation for her anger towards John as well as Bruce. 

John, it seemed, didn’t think so at all. He laughed, loud and a little self-conscious, “Girlfriend? Gosh no, Harley would never go for a guy like me!”

Bruce considered that for a moment. He didn’t know the first thing about Harley – in fact, he had only just learned her full name – so perhaps he shouldn’t assume that he did, but he could understand where John was coming from. Still, given what little he _had_ seen of her, he wouldn’t be surprised either if she turned out to be the type of person who liked having someone well and truly under her thumb. Then again, judging from the way John had cowered from her, the other man appeared to be under some spell of hers already, romantic or otherwise. 

“I mean, not that I’d want her to,” John continued, “I think I had a bit of a crush on her when we first met, and I’m forever grateful that she helped me figure out this job, and that she’s letting me stay with her until I find my own place,” he paused and bit his lip, eyes cautiously flickering towards Bruce before he uttered his next words, “But I’m pretty sure I don’t swing that way, buddy.”

“Oh,” Bruce replied, “Well, me neither – I mean, I do, but not only,” he added, not sure why he felt the need to volunteer this information to someone he barely knew when he had never even officially come out to Alfred, at least not in so many words. He couldn’t say he was particularly surprised by John’s admission, but he nevertheless felt a tinge of relief that the other man’s sexuality didn’t constitute an additional source of discomfort in his job.

“Uh, yeah, obviously?” John gave him a bemused smile, gesturing at himself.

“Right. Of course,” Bruce murmured, feeling like an idiot. His brain had apparently already succeeded in repressing the memory of how he and John had met; or rather, it seemed to have made peace with the fact that he’d made a stupid decision he couldn’t follow through on, yet conveniently chose to ignore that said decision had involved him, however briefly, expressing his desire to sleep with John in the most unsubtle way imaginable. 

“So, is Harley also working as a…” Bruce asked, trying to change the subject to distract from his embarrassment. He left the last word unspoken, still unsure of the appropriate term to use.

“Hooker. Come on, you can say it – it’s not that hard, _hoo-ker_ ,” John enunciated the word slowly, shooting him a sarcastic smile. Bruce made a mental note that ‘hooker’ seemed to be the designation John was most comfortable with, and resolved to stick to it in the future.

“Is she working as a hooker, too?”

“Nah, she wouldn’t,” John giggled, and Bruce gave him an odd look.

“Wait – is she not the one who suggested you do it?”

“Well, yeah,” John replied, sounding a little confused, but then the reason for Bruce’s indignation dawned on him, “Oh, no, buddy, you misunderstand – I’m not saying she wouldn’t do it because she thinks it’s beneath her or anything, she’s just very… impulsive. Wouldn’t go down well with the clients if she started hitting them over the head with her bat, y’know?” he shrugged, like his argument made all the sense in the world.

Bruce didn’t know what to say to that. He had witnessed Harley’s ‘impulsiveness’ – and wasn’t that a nice euphemism for choking your friends one minute and then doubling over laughing about it the next – not too long ago, but he couldn’t help but feel that John shared that particular quality of hers. It didn’t seem to stop either of them from thinking that this job was a good fit for _him_.

“Besides, her talents are put to better use elsewhere, trust me,” John added cryptically, and Bruce figured it was best not to ask.

–

Armed with only the vaguest of plans on _where_ to tackle John’s wardrobe problem, Bruce had simply parked the car in the first car park he had stumbled across after reaching the city centre. Once the two of them had stepped out into the bustling streets of one of Gotham’s more upmarket shopping districts, John had taken the lead and Bruce had been content to follow. 

Every now and then, the other man would stop to marvel at a shop window, pressing his nose against the glass and excitedly pointing at whatever had caught his attention, and Bruce could admit that it was… endearing, if odd. Perhaps he would have to reconsider his longstanding hatred of shopping trips; perhaps, he thought, he would have to reconsider his stance on a lot of things once he experienced them in the company of John Doe.

Despite his unabashed excitement at every other corner, John had yet to express the desire to enter any of the shops they had passed; he seemed to know exactly what he was looking for, but so far hadn’t found it. Since Bruce had taken the whole day off work, he was in no rush – it was a welcome change of pace, really, wandering Gotham’s streets not only during the day, but also with no particular purpose other than waiting for something to take John’s fancy.

Bruce felt strangely at ease, listening to the other man’s ramblings and admiring the surprisingly tasteful Christmas decorations that adorned every lamp post and every shopfront as far as their eyes could reach. It wasn’t unlike Gotham to try and hide its true colours within the confines of its richer districts, but Bruce didn’t often consider these efforts a success – today, though, if he squinted, he could almost see a hint of beauty where usually he saw only malice. Every now and then he smiled at John’s jokes, or shared a little anecdote of his own, and he experienced a strange sense of melancholy, not altogether unpleasant, when he realised that he couldn’t remember the last time he had idled away an afternoon. 

Bruce was still lost in thought when, all of a sudden, John stopped in the middle of the street, and he only narrowly managed to avoid walking into the other man. He watched as John reverently touched his fingers against the cold glass of a brightly illuminated window, mouth forming a little circle. Had Bruce been prone to whimsy, he might have said that he saw a little twinkle in the other man’s almost comically wide eyes. 

“Here!” John exclaimed, one finger raised high in the air, like he had just decided that this was where he’d been wanting to go all along. Bruce furrowed his brow and shot him a knowing sideways glance. He strongly suspected that John’s choice had something to do with the appalling red glitter boots that formed the centrepiece of this particular window display but decided not to voice his thoughts on the matter.

Instead, he gave the shopfront a dubious look – its flashing neon sign and the pastel pink Christmas tree right behind the red boots weren’t exactly what he’d had in mind, but it wasn’t like Bruce knew anything about fashion apart from which brands were considered expensive enough for him to parade around in whenever he was forced to make a public appearance. And it wasn’t like he cared much beyond that either, much to Alfred’s chagrin.

With an almost imperceptible shrug, Bruce followed a very eager John into the shop – only to have all of his senses assaulted at once. The whiter-than-white lights stung his eyes and he had to blink a few times for his pupils to adjust to the unnatural brightness. That and the obnoxiously repetitive music alone would have been enough to make him want to walk back out the door before it ever even swung shut, but the sickeningly sweet scent that invaded his nostrils was by far the worst. It smelled like someone had mixed together at least three different types of air freshener, topped it off with some potpourri, and then lit the whole thing on fire.

His discomfort must have shown on his face because John shot him a knowing and not-at-all-sympathetic grin as he leaned in, as always just a little too close for comfort, but Bruce was starting to get used to the other man’s lack of respect for personal space, “Bit different from your usual digs, is it?”

Bruce resisted the urge to wrinkle his nose and schooled his features into a more neutral expression, holding his breath to give his nose a temporary reprieve as he took in the assortment of brightly coloured clothes and accessories around him. He could tell that this was by no means a cheap place – ironically, the conspicuous absence of price tags was a very reliable indicator of that – but their florid product range only mirrored their questionable approach to room fragrance. Bruce hadn’t paid any attention to the shop’s name, but he thought that something along the lines of ‘More Is More’ would have been appropriate.

“Well, we’re not here for me, are we? See anything you like?”

John snickered at Bruce’s valiant but lousy attempt at disguising his dislike of the place and walked off in the direction of what Bruce guessed was the men’s section – it was hard to tell when everything appeared to be covered in sequins. While Bruce had long since made peace with the fact that he liked his things black and with as few bells and whistles as possible, he supposed he should have guessed that John’s fashion sense would be his polar opposite. Still, even accounting for that, this place was… a bit much, to say the least.

“Sooo – I’m guessing I’ll need a suit or something, Mr Multibillionaire?” John shouted just a tad too loudly over his shoulder, and Bruce groaned inwardly when he noticed the two shop assistants turn their heads first towards John, then him. 

Their sleek, black-and-white pantsuits stood in stark contrast to the colourful backdrop of the clothes rails behind them, the incongruity so jarring that Bruce was certain it couldn’t be attributed to coincidence. It made them appear professional, yet almost underdressed compared to the outfits their prospective clients would be trying on – a clever marketing trick, really, and surprisingly subtle given the profound lack of subtlety where anything else in the shop was concerned. The two women peered at him surreptitiously, covering their mouths with their perfectly manicured hands and whispering to each other in hushed tones, and Bruce could pinpoint from the way their eyes widened the exact moment the penny dropped.

“Thanks for that,” he muttered darkly and grabbed John’s arm to drag him away from the two gaping women. 

“Anytime, buddy, anytime,” John giggled as Bruce scowled at him. 

Bruce hated being what the media often referred to as a ‘local celebrity’. Sometimes, when he had again been forced to waste his time at some pointless party with some equally pointless date – an actress or a singer or a model or whomever Alfred had deemed appropriately famous at the time – he’d been unable to stop himself from indulging his curiosity: dropping the carefree billionaire act for a few precious moments, he had asked them, point-blank, why in the world they had willingly chosen to put themselves in the spotlight, to give up any and all privacy – and for what? To sip champagne with those who had either made the same stupid decision or who had, like him, been unlucky enough to be born into it? 

Some of them had playfully slapped his arm and thrown their heads back laughing like it was all some big joke – “Oh, you’re a riot, Bruce!” – but others, coincidentally the ones whose company he tended to enjoy a lot more, had given him an appraising look, sharp and shrewd in a way that made Bruce wonder if perhaps he wasn’t the only one at these sorts of events who habitually donned a mask of shallowness. What most of them had told him, in essence, was that they viewed publicity as a necessary evil that enabled them to pursue their passion. Which made sense, he supposed; only Bruce’s passion, or rather his _obsession_ , had already involved a whole lot of unwanted attention, so he didn’t much care for the additional scrutiny he was subjected to as Bruce Wayne.

Slipping into a marginally less well-lit corner of the shop, where he hoped to stay hidden from view, Bruce crossed his arms and leaned against the wall as he watched John rifle through frill and feathers and fur. He realised, an amused smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, that other man had never looked more in his element than he did right now: he ran his spindly fingers over every item of clothing he could reach, fast but not thoughtlessly so, like a little touch was enough to tell him whether something warranted a closer look. Every now and then, he would take something off the rails, holding it up close to his face and eyeing it critically before shaking his head and mumbling something to himself as he put it back exactly where he had found it. It was chaotic, yet methodical, and fascinating to watch. 

“Oh, Bruce, Bruce, come look at this!” John shouted, pulling Bruce from his thoughts as he snatched a garishly purple bowler hat from one of the ornate mannequins whose shapes, Bruce noted, had very little in common with the human body and bore a much closer resemblance to the distorted figures one would find in a surrealist painting. With a delighted squeal, John put on the monstrosity of a hat that he had, for some unfathomable reason, taken a shine to, and began posing in front of a nearby mirror. Puckering his lips and swaying his hips, he looked for all the world like a grotesque amalgam of Marylin Monroe and Charlie Chaplin.

“Whaddaya think?”

“It’s very… purple.”

“Uh, that’s the _point_!” John rolled his eyes at him and gleefully rubbed his hands together in a way that Bruce had come to understand meant trouble, “We need to find you one, too!”

“I really don’t think that’s ne–” Bruce started, but he didn’t even get to finish his sentence. Seemingly out of nowhere, John had conjured up a cobalt blue flat cap that was no less garish than the bowler hat that sat on top of John’s head at an artfully slanted angle, and wrestled it onto Bruce before he could protest any further. It was in that moment that Bruce decided to revert to his earlier verdict: shopping trips were to be avoided at all costs.

“Really brings out your eyes, honey,” John cooed, clutching at his heart before erupting into another fit of giggles, “Oh, I know, let’s take a selfie to commemorate the beginning of this beautiful partnership!” 

At that, Bruce raised one questioning eyebrow. He distinctly remembered John’s less than enthusiastic reaction to their ‘beautiful partnership’ when Bruce had first proposed it a few hours ago, the threat of having scalding hot coffee thrown in his face still fresh in his mind. His confusion about this sudden change of heart notwithstanding, he was glad to see that John’s spirits had lifted a bit, so when the other man produced a beaten-up flip phone from his pocket and slung one arm around Bruce’s shoulders, he forced his lips into an uneasy smile.

“Say monkey butt!” 

Bruce did not say ‘monkey butt’. Contrary to what their current surroundings might have suggested, there were limits to his willingness to indulge John’s idiosyncrasies; he also wasted no time in removing the flat cap and hurriedly hiding it in the pile of equally hideous scarves to his right, lest John get any ideas about buying it. Luckily for him, the other man was too busy inspecting the photograph on his tiny phone screen to notice, grimacing a little at Bruce’s pained expression, “It’s almost like you’ve never taken one of these before.”

“That’s because I haven’t.”

“You’re not serious? Have you been living under a rock or something?” John stared at him disbelievingly. Bruce wondered if spending most of his waking hours in a subterranean cave counted as living under a rock, but wisely kept his mouth shut. 

“I guess practice makes perfect,” John shrugged and returned his attention to the task at hand. To Bruce’s relief, he stayed away from the likes of the bowler hat and soon tried on a surprisingly tasteful emerald dinner jacket – surprising not so much because Bruce doubted John’s fashion sense (in spite of recent evidence in support of such doubts) but because the shop didn’t have much in the way of tasteful options to begin with.

“It suits you,” Bruce heard himself say quietly, almost as if to himself; the words felt strange in his mouth, like it wasn’t used to paying compliments, but that made them no less sincere.

John spun around and looked at him wide-eyed, “You really think so?”

“I think green is your colour,” Bruce nodded and gave him a little half-smile, “One of your colours, in any case,” he amended because he knew with a certainty that should have been impossible given the brevity of their acquaintance that John would never limit himself to just one colour.

“Gosh, Bruce, you’re making me blush,” John giggled again, waving his hand and playing it off as a joke, but Bruce hadn’t missed how the other man’s cheeks had reddened a little at his words. Still smiling to himself, John took off the jacket and smoothed down the creases he had made before he set it aside and turned towards the adjacent rail of suit pants.

It was then that, from the corner of his eye, Bruce spotted the two shop assistants stalking towards them – until a moment ago, he had all but forgotten about their presence, but now their forcedly casual movements had caught his attention. He eyed them warily as they inched closer, little by little, to where John was milling around, a pair of green suit pants in each hand. From where they were standing, half-hidden behind two oversized mannequins, Bruce was certain that both of them would have been able to see him, but their attention was focused entirely on John. His stomach sank when he saw them frowning and pointing their fingers at his turned back. 

“What in the world is Bruce Wayne doing with someone like _him_?” the taller of the two women crossed her arms and shook her head, either not bothering or horribly failing to keep her nasally voice down. Her upper lip was curled in disdain as she tapped one long fingernail against her cheek. 

“He must be doing it for attention,” the other woman agreed loftily, running a hand through her thick, brown curls, “But he’s really scraping the bottom of the barrel with that one… I mean, forget about the hair for a moment, but what is wrong with his skin? He looks like he’s about to keel over, and I’m telling you now, I’m not going to be the one to clean up that mess, nuh-uh,” she drew her thin eyebrows together as she looked John up and down with what could only be described as flagrant animosity.

“Freak,” the tall woman spat, and Bruce didn’t miss the way John flinched at the word, shoulders jerking up and breath hitching audibly. He quietly put back the two pairs of pants in his hands and pretended to examine another, like nothing had happened, but Bruce could tell from the tense set of his jaw that he had heard every word. 

Anger flared inside of him, an image of John’s disguise from the night before pushing its way into his mind, reminding him that this was no isolated incident, that John had to deal with this sort of behaviour on a regular basis.

Despite the person the tabloids had made him out to be, Bruce despised making a scene, he truly did, but this was something couldn’t let slide. If someone wanted to insult _him_? Fine. Question _his_ motivations for asking John to stick around? He couldn’t care less. But one thing he had absolutely no tolerance for were condescending bullies who thought their relative affluence gave them the right to thumb their noses at anyone who didn’t meet their ridiculous standards. He was about to open his mouth, a scathing speech already forming in his head, but one look at John made the words die before they reached his lips.

The other man’s hands were shaking violently and his breathing had grown heavy, chest heaving up and down with the effort of it, and Bruce knew the signs of a panic attack when he saw them. Sparing one last glare for the two women, neither of whom had the decency to look ashamed at his outrage, he quickly strode towards John, hovering close, but not so close as to make him feel trapped.

“John, are you alright?” Bruce whispered softly, stomach twisting into a knot when John covered his face with his trembling hands and nodded jerkily.

“Let’s get some air, shall we?” he suggested calmly, despite feeling anything but. John gave another sharp nod but didn’t move, fingers still digging into his forehead as he tried and failed to calm his breathing. Bruce looked around to see if there was anywhere inside the shop that would provide a little shelter, both from the bright lights and from the prying eyes of the two women who were now craning their necks to get a better look at what was going on, but no such luck. Swallowing his frustration, Bruce refocused his attention on John.

“Can you give me your hand?” he asked, mindful not to upset the other man by initiating unwanted physical contact. At that, John lowered his hands slowly and held one out for Bruce to take, eyes wide and scared in a way that Bruce had never seen on him before; like a frightened animal, he thought, a bit guiltily, but it was a fitting comparison. He wasted no time in taking John’s clammy hand in his and squeezed it, hoping that his firm grip would provide some reassurance to the other man.

“We’re just going to go outside for a little bit, okay?” he explained as he slowly but determinedly guided John through the jungle of gaudy colours and towards the exit. One hand hovering over the small of John’s back, the other gripping his hand tightly, Bruce pushed the door open with his shoulder and manoeuvred them out of the shop and onto the busy street. 

Once outside, and grateful for the crisp and mercifully unscented air that filled his lungs, Bruce watched John slump against the shop window that he had admired not so long ago; the marked difference between the cheerful mood he had been in then and the shaking mess he had since been reduced to made Bruce’s chest feel tight. It was a sharp reminder that, until a few months ago, John had been a patient in Gotham’s most notorious mental institution, not to mention the fact that no one seemed to have a clue as to when or how he had ended up there in the first place. It was easy to forget, what with his vivacity and his overflowing confidence at times, but it wouldn’t do to ignore John’s past and Bruce knew that, he _should_ have known that. Gritting his teeth, he wondered, for the first time, if this arrangement of theirs might do more harm than good.

John squeezed Bruce’s hand hard, pulling him back to the present. Squaring his shoulders, Bruce tried to angle his body so that it would shield the other man from the curious glances of people walking past and spoke what he hoped to be soothing words – about how John would be alright, that they were outside now, that he just needed to concentrate on his breathing. For a while, he wasn’t sure if his words were having any effect at all, but he forced himself to keep talking until, eventually, John’s breathing began to slow down and his grip on Bruce’s hand loosened. 

When John let go completely, Bruce instinctively took a step back to give him some space and tried to get a look at his downcast face, “Better?”

“Mh-hm,” John cleared his throat and nodded, eyes still fixed on the ground, and Bruce stayed quiet as the other man shuffled his feet a little and tried to compose himself. When he spoke again, looking up to take in his surroundings, a weak smile back in place, Bruce felt his own shoulders relax a little, “Sorry about that.” 

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Bruce shook his head, staring at the other man intently. He was no stranger to panic attacks himself, had lost count of how many of them Alfred had had to talk him through over the years, and he was all too familiar with the irrational sense of shame that followed in their aftermath. He couldn’t be sure which part of the conversation that they had overheard had triggered this reaction in John or why, and he knew now wasn’t the time to ask, but Bruce needed him to understand that he didn’t blame him for any of it. He still had half a mind to storm back into the shop and tear the two women a new one, except he didn’t want to leave his friend alone, not after what had just happened.

“Do you want to go home? We can go back to mine, or I can take you to your place, if you prefer?” he suggested instead, although the thought of handing John over into Harley’s care made Bruce shudder. Something told him that she wasn’t what one would describe as the caring type, perhaps even less so than Bruce himself.

“But I need clothes?” John gave him a puzzled look, his voice quiet and a little broken. If the whole scene hadn’t been so heartbreaking, Bruce might have laughed at that – as if finding John an outfit for stupid dinner parties that would, in all likelihood, be filled with even stupider people was their most pressing concern right now.

“Yes,” Bruce agreed, “But we can deal with that later, John, there’s no rush.”

“No,” John straightened his back and ran his still shaky hands over his rumpled shirt, meeting Bruce’s eyes for the first time, defiant and unflinching, “No, I’m okay, I’d rather do it now.”

Heaving a sigh, Bruce rubbed a hand over his face; he suddenly felt incredibly tired. All of his instincts were screaming at him to wrap the other man in cotton wool and end their excursion right then and there, but he made a point of reminding himself that he had absolutely no idea what it was that John needed from him right now. As much as he hated relinquishing control, in this situation as well as in any other, Bruce had to accept that it was best to let John decide how he wanted to handle this.

“Okay,” he concurred reluctantly, mulling over an idea in his head, “Look, John, I know you said you didn’t want to go anywhere too… exclusive, but I think I might know a place. The owner is an old friend, and we could get you a milkshake or something on the way?”

John raised his chin at Bruce’s suggestion, lips pursed. His eyes carried a trace of uncertainty that was somehow so at odds with the rest of his personality and yet seemed to have become a permanent fixture at some point between their first meeting in Arkham all those months ago and their accidental reunion the night before. John regarded him for a long moment before he nodded, wordlessly, and Bruce had to resist the urge to take the other man’s hand again as he started walking down the familiar route towards Gotham Square.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
> This was a reaaally tough one to write and I’m not sure I’m happy with it. Updates may also be a little bit slower from now on because, much as I like to pretend otherwise, I have a day job that unfortunately already requires me to spend a lot of time writing. But worry not, I have a lot of tooth-rottingly fluffy ideas planned for this.
> 
> Also, in my headcanon, Bruce is bi and John is more or less only into men but wouldn't stick a label on it because John doesn't strike me as labels kind of guy - but I would love to hear your thoughts on this :)
> 
> I hope you liked this (even if I’m not sure I do haha!) <3


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